‘Natural things – living things in particular – are like language we only faintly remember. It is as if creation has been dismembered sometime in the past and all things are limbs we have lost that will make us whole if only we can recall them.’*
We are simply more ourselves when we join with others, the universe, and with the future. These things comes to our aid but they are not who we are.
Someone sits down with others to tell their story. They are not their story.
This is a gift they bestow, but they are neither the gifts they receive nor the gifts they give:
‘there is a middle phase in the process of the gifted self: between sympathy and pride, between the reception and the bestowal, lies a moment in which new identity comes to life as the old identity perishes’.**
The person continues to tell their story. I listen to what they have done and what has been done to them. I wonder whether there is another story:
These things are not me. I, the person I am, breathe these in and breathe them out. I am the moment in between the breathings, the moment of magic receiving something old,which dies, and bringing something new to life.